Lying in bed late one night, my phone trilled.
‘Mum?’ I said sleepily, hearing her hurried voice.
‘Answer your door,’ she urged.
Grabbing my dressing gown, I tiptoed downstairs, careful not to wake my two kids, Jack, then 6, and Izzy, 4.
The moment I opened the door to my mum, Wendy, then 53, I knew something terrible had happened.
‘Sit down, it’s Jake,’ she whispered, her face ashen.
Jake, 26, was my younger brother.
With just a year between us, we’d been called ‘the twins’ growing up.
Same dark features, same sense of fun.
I always said we were soul mates.
Only, now, in November 2017, Mum was telling me Jake